Celebrating Mother's Day Without a Miscarriage

I wasn’t planning to write tonight. I love to document my life with words, but some nights there is a heaviness to it. I’m not feeling well tonight. The reason is relevant to Mother’s Day.

This evening I sat out at dusk on the grass just off my back porch, looking at the sky. I started to feel sick as soon as I had finished eating. My daughter has been weaned for a couple weeks now, and I now get to suffer the hormonal consequences. I get periodic spells of nausea and the accompanied rise in adrenaline that has a way of making the entire self feel horrendous. It is similar to the symptoms of early pregnancy, only without the constant idea of your tiny seed rapidly growing and flourishing because of the hormonal torment. Without the seed, I just think over and over this is bullshit. The hormonal fluctuations are a poignant reminder of what mothers endure. That said, I have a lot to be grateful for.

The cool fresh air soothes me when I feel ill. For my children, seeing me sitting on the dry, crunchy grass is unusual and enticing. I soon had a train of children on my lap, jerking back and forth and nearly knocking me over. They started to play a game of knocking their heads together, creating a head bonking noise that makes all mothers cringe.

“Don’t do that! Heads are important,” I said. They giggled. If you aren’t rocket scientists when you grow up, don’t blame me.

My mind wondered. For the past two years on Mother’s Day I rejoiced in the fact that I am not having a miscarriage. Three years ago, I did spend my Mother’s Day recovering from a miscarriage. I spent the days surrounding it trying to remember precisely what the doctor said about how much blood loss is too much. I didn’t want to hemorrhage for Mother’s Day. I’ve given birth at home twice—I am not afraid of going through the body’s motions. The body is wise from its instincts. However, there is something very different from giving birth at home, and having a miscarriage at home. Births come with midwives who have seen thousands of births and also come equipped with Pitocin. Miscarriage at home is much lonelier, but I decided it was better than the alternative. I didn’t want to schedule with the doctor to have the remains of my baby sucked out of me and tossed into a hazardous waste bag, and then move on with my life like nothing happen. Some things should involve some suffering to honor the loss. Part of the suffering is purgatory. I waited a week for the miscarriage to happen.

“I smell poop,” I said to the tot. “Did you poop your pants?”

She shook her head vehemently. I know a liar when I see one. It is a motherly skill.

“Are you sure?”

“I pooping,” she nodded.

“Hold it in your butt!” I grabbed her and we made a run for the potty chair.

Motherhood is at times full of shit, both literally and figuratively. Motherhood has this way of involving so much suffering, and so much wonderfulness that they can’t entirely be separated. All extremes blur together into one mass of a gray area, and that gray area is a big ball of love.

It is an experience like no other.